A Pair of Dull Scissors in the Yellow Light
by Connie Welsh
Summary: When half of Sam's hair gets burnt off after a case involving some nasty witches, Dean finally gets to put clippers to Sam's head. Sam's distress over the whole thing convinces him to be sweet about it.


**A/N:** I took some inspiration from Regina Spektor's "Samson" for the title, as well as some of the essence of the fic because I couldn't resist. Mad love to my beta Sarah_Ellie for being my needed critical eye after a long fic dry spell.

All the times Dean's teased about this, he never imagined it would come about quite this way. It wouldn't have been the way he chose for his little brother, either, not by a long shot.

He glanced over at Sam, his heart aching a little at the defeated slump to his brother's shoulders, made all the more pathetic by the way he was clutching at the towel draped around him, his only other clothing except for his faded gray boxer-briefs.

Finally Dean snapped the clipper's battery into place, and pushed the "on" button. The clippers buzzed in his hand for a moment before he shut them off again, noticing Sam's wince in his peripheral vision. He couldn't help but smirk, thinking of all the times over the years Sam had faced the scissors with dread. Dean was no expert, of course, but mastery of some basic hair cutting techniques had developed through necessity over time. Sam was just unappreciative of them.

"Ready?" Dean asked, managing a serious face as he turned and surveyed the damage before he began. The entire left side of Sam's head was a singed mess, odd pieces of hair sticking up here and there; the true damaged revealed under the soot since Sam's shower. He was lucky it hadn't reached his skin, and he had Dean's quick reflexes to thank for it. Fucking witches, man.

Sam sighed, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Dean smirked again at the puff of Sam's cheeks as he blew it out in a sharp breath, straightening up in his chair.

"Yeah... yeah," Sam murmured, and Dean stepped forward in the small motel bathroom, the mirror still fogged from the steam.

"It's ok, little brother," Dean murmured, coming around behind Sam and squeezing his shoulder comfortingly before switching the clippers back on. He tilted Sam's head gently to the side, starting on the damaged hair first. Dean took special care to keep the press of the clippers as light as he could on Sam's heat-tender scalp, eyes flicking to his brother's face occasionally to make sure he wasn't causing him pain.

Sam clenched his jaw as the first little pieces of hair started falling to the ground, all the burnt, frail little wisps wafting down from Sam's head like snow. Dean cupped his hand across the back of Sam's head gently, partly to steady him and partly to rub his thumb gently behind Sam's ear in comfort.

"Does your head feel lighter yet?" Dean smirked. Sam gave a small snort, swallowing visibly with his eyes still closed like he could pretend it wasn't happening if he couldn't see it.

"Shut up. You're enjoying this way too much," Sam murmured, and Dean couldn't help but lean down, pressing a kiss to the back of Sam's head gently.

"Only a little," he smiled, shaking the excess hair out of the clippers before moving on to the next bit.

"Jerk," Sam huffed, and Dean flicked his newly exposed ear in retaliation.

"Bitch," Dean snarked back, ignoring Sam's pouty "hey!" as he reached up to rub his ear, "Just remember who put your flaming head out tonight, asshat."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam snorted, readjusting the towel around his shoulders and sighing heavily.

Dean just shook his head, guiding Sam's head forward so he could start on the back, the long hair slowly falling away.

They fell silent, then, as Dean worked and Sam chewed his lip anxiously. Finally the sides were done, and Dean put the clippers on the sink.

"You sure you don't wanna try rockin' the Beckham look?" Dean teased, picking up the scissors and coming around to stand in front of Sam. He ran his fingers through the long hair left on top, thinking on where to begin.

Sam chuckled, shaking his head, "Hell no. Just do it."

Dean leaned down to kiss Sam's forehead before he started cutting. His brother hummed lowly at the action and placed his hands on Dean's hips, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans.

"Almost done, Sammy," Dean encouraged warmly, snipping what was left of Sam's hair with care. Finally he put the scissors down, ruffling the top of Sam's head and watching the strays drift to the floor.

"Alright," he grunted, and Sam whined as he pulled Dean closer, pressing his face into Dean's chest miserably.

"I hate witches," Sam muttered, and Dean chuckled, looping his arms around Sam's shoulders and rubbing his palms along his back comfortingly.

"Me too, Sammy," he agreed, scrubbing his fingers through the short hair on the back of Sam's head with a smile before thumping his brother on the back, "Come on, let me look at you."

Sam raised his head slowly with a grimace, and Dean's smile widened as he flashed back to the Sam he knew about twenty years ago; all cheekbones and slender nose accentuated without the distraction of the long hair hanging around his face.

"Perfect," he murmured, framing Sam's face in his hands and leaning down to kiss him soundly. He grinned, and couldn't resist moving his hands back to scrub his fingers through the soft, short hair on the sides of Sam's head.

Sam sighed heavily when Dean finally pulled away. He stood up slowly and squared his shoulders again, then finally turned around to look at his reflection in the mirror behind him.

Dean barked out a laugh at Sam's distressed whine, his little brother tilting his head this way and that to survey the damage.

"I look like I'm ten!" Sam complained with a grimace, and Dean pulled the towel they had been improvising as a barber's apron off before stepping up behind him, pushing up on his toes to hook his chin over Sam's shoulder and wrap his arms around his waist.

"No you don't," Dean smirked, "More like sixteen..."

Sam glared at his reflection in the mirror, huffing, "You're not helping."

"It'll grow back, Samson," Dean rolled his eyes, kissing Sam's neck and stroking his hand down Sam's abdomen ticklishly, grinning when his brother squirmed, "Don't worry, I'll protect you until your godly strength returns."

Sam gave him a surprised look, and Dean smacked his ass before he could comment, "Yes, I read, Sam!"

Sam had the decency to blush, turning around in Dean's arms and tilting his head down to kiss Dean apologetically, "It looks good, Dean. Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Dean grumbled, pushing up on his toes again to demand Sam's mouth, and Sam obliged him gladly for several long minutes.

"Come on," Dean finally pulled away to murmur warmly, "I'll treat you to..." he looked at his watch, "Is there a name for a meal that's between dinner and breakfast?"

Sam laughed, kissing him again and tightening his arms around Dean for a moment, "Yeah, midnight snack."

"Well, yeah, but does a burger count as a snack?" Dean mused, finally letting Sam go and walking out the bathroom door, getting his jacket on as Sam dug around in his duffle bag for fresh clothes.

"Dean, you can't possibly want to eat that heavy this late at night."

"Have you met me? Do you know me at all?"

Dean smiled as they bickered good-naturedly out the door, his brother's new look stirring something warm in his belly and getting all kinds of thoughts swirling around his mind.

Ok... maybe witches weren't entirely awful.

**A/N:** ...so maybe I couldn't resist putting an actual Samson reference in there too.


End file.
